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Along the Byway
dont mind me check for updates regularly notes/brainstorm: -Small town named 'Arletston' nicknamed Arlie (or Harlotston for those edgy bois out there) (harlot=prostitute) -Old plains with castle and building ruins off to the southeast of the town -North of town is an outpost with a bar, house, and small fort. North from that is shipyard wreckage -Underneath outpost is an old mine run by a self proclaimed 'militia' (blue armoured) -Roads between locations are very risky to cross, so air travel is heavily demanded for. This makes said air travel very expensive. The only thing that rivals air transport is locomotive transportation. There is only one functioning train by Arletston, so tickets are very expensive. -Some people build vehicles, using scrap parts to make the construction cheaper, closer to tanks than cars to cross the paths. Others, who cannot even afford scraps, use animals like horses and donkeys to travel. -Rogue groups often try to raid towns and outposts (usually to small/no avail) -Ruins are scattered about 'as far as the eye can see' -To the west are mountains, islands, peninsulas, and even more wreckage (usually big ships, oil rigs, and 'floating cities') -Floating cities were an absolute marvel at the time. Gargantuan masses of metal were set afloat to sea, and workers who had stayed there built impressive cities. -Mountains were often uninhabited by humans, but several bunkers can still be found if one searches closely enough. The people of Arletston mostly believe these bunkers to be a myth. the story itself: I woke up to the view of the sunrise. I had my head up against a tree; apparently I'd fallen asleep sitting up. The flat plane before me stretched on and on for miles before meeting these stiff walls of dark brown rock, like a wall meant to keep me in. The sun was only halfway up, and the lights from the town still looked bright under the dark blue shadow cast by the walls. A salmon light bled into the clouds, eventually fading out into a pur-- God fucking damnit, where's my shirt? I can only really remember up until that final drink... after that I've really got nothing other than this weird cold feeling on my legs. Damn. My pants are missing too. Y'know, I never really catch a break. Break or not, I had to figure out what the hell had happened. If you ask me, waking up at blazing noon shirtless with a hangover next to a shady looking bar isn't exactly the most pleasant way to wake up. I don't care what the hell kind of a waking view you got. I woke up like that regardless. Anyway, so I stood up and told myself "well, Darren, better get your shit together." Whoever mugged me had the courtesy of leaving my belt and holster strapped to me--oh yeah, and my boots. Don't forget the brand new boots. So, me being my dumb, skinny, overconfident sexy ass, I stomped into the bar like I owned the damn place. I took a long look around, glancing from table to table as I looked for my outfit. Surely enough, it was on the burliest guy in the goddamn room. Coulda been the guys strung up on whatever the hell kind of alcohol they had here (it was good, don't get me wrong, just a little strong) or the barebone addicts writhing in the corner pissing themselves. No, it just had to be... Bruno. Now, I'm not sure if that's his name, but he sure looked like a fucking Bruno. Brunos are always super delicate or way too fucking obsessed with how ripped they are. This one was the latter. I approached him, immediately regretting the second my index finger made contact with the nicotine infested air that rested on his shoulders. He turned around, let his chair fall over as he stood. You know the routine--huge, tall, bulking man towers over a shrimp of a human being. Except Bruno wasn't tall. At all. He was really just a stubby little man who'd spent too much time being insecure about his penis size by increasing his muscle mass. Goddamn, what a genius. He looked up at me, puffing his chest up as he bumped into my stomach, brushing his disgusting stained mustache and beard all over my chest. "Whaddya want, huh?" he barked up at me (like a chihuahua). "You got a problem?" "Yeah, I think you took my clothes." I know, I'm clever. "Far as I know," the stub replied, "these are mine, fair 'n square." "No, they're really not." "Yeah, yeah they are!" I couldn't help but sock him upwards by the chin. The poor bastard flew backwards onto the table. "Gimme my clothes back, or I'll--" I was cut off by his ratty friend, who delivered a message to my stomach. I backpedaled for a bit, getting a bit of a headache. These dipshits are really beginning to piss me off. "Last fuckin' warning," as I heaved one into the rat's paper skull, approaching the fat man as he lay on the ground, scurrying backwards like a pig that just got caught eating bacon for breakfast. "O-alri-okay, I'll give you your clothes! Just lemme go out back!" "Right here," as I stepped on his ankle, planting a firm pressure, "right now." Everyone was staring at us like it was some sort of funky porno, and I can't exactly blame them. The pig struggled to get out of my shirt and coat, tossing those at me first before shaking the pants off. I dressed back up right in front of him. "Stand up." The bastard stood. "Look at me." He looked. "Fuck," as I gripped his sweaty shoulders before pushing him away, "you." I stumbled back out of that toilet of a bar, feeling a deep, sharp pain on the left side of my head. My stomach felt like spilling out through my throat, and I nearly fell down. Luckily enough, I had one more vial of Stardust. I let it fly up into my nostrils, and it worked like magic. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. Everything was hazy for a second, but it left just as soon as it had came. The pain melted away, and I could walk straight again. I felt I could do fuckin' anything. So my dumb ass decides to hop onto my horse. --- I rode towards Arletston, that town I mentioned earlier, on the pathetic dirt road that led down to it. The sun was higher in the sky now, just barely having climbed over the rock wall. On either sides of the road, there was nothing but barren land and dead grass. This place is so fucking boring. I wanted to get back to Arletston to gather my things. I'd been told that there's some lawless place out east, some sort of a criminal's paradise. If you ask me, I'm not much of a criminal; I just tend to go to extreme measures to get what I want. Okay, MAYBE that makes me a criminal. Anyway, I kept on this stupid path until I got to Arletston's big, dull gates. The entire damn thing was surrounded by walls to keep all kinds of idiots from getting in. Idiots like me, that is. I got in anyway. When I got up to the guard's post, I just tossed 'em a decent sack of money. End of story, these guys are corrupt as hell. Some of them just don't like to play along though. This one bastard decides to come scurrying up to my horse and pulls me off. Not only that, but he slaps my horse in the ass like some sort of kinky horse pimp. What? Look, I have to admit that Arletston doesn't look all that bad. The buildings are decent, but when your face is sideways on the pavement, it's all complete shit. My head began to hurt again, and my horse had just finished screaming and running off. That guard picked me up, shook me, and turned me to face him. "Do you have any idea what kind of a mistake you have just made, young man?" I just stared into his face. The stardust was already wearing off, but it was bringing me down with it. "God, you must be intoxicated as well!" the man with the poker up his ass screeched, "you will not be leaving any time soon! You are coming with me!" He grabbed me by my collar, essentially dragging me down the street with his lover, who was so outwardly loving that they wore the same outfit. In other words, another guard was pulling me by my shoulder while this fucker took the other. Again, everyone looked at me. This time, I wasn't the guy beating lifeless jerks--I was the one who was all beaten. They hauled me into a blue building, which was the same colour as their uniforms, and shoved me onto the ground. I stood up carefully, but they just shoved me again. "Yeah," the second one said to the first, "I'm sure he's just some petty criminal." "Agreed," the first said, "Say, what do we do with criminals again, Dort?" "Well, Bentley, we--" "Wait, your name..." I mumbled loudly, "is fucking Dort?" I then went into hysterics, laughing like a madman who'd been tickled for far too long. "And-and-" I pointed to the one who'd pulled me off my horse, "you are Bentley?" The two of them scowled, looking down at me before sticking their noses into the air. "Yes, what's wrong with our names?" they complained in unison. "You two sound like... like..." We all waited for me to say something. Even I waited. I didn't know what the hell I was gonna say. Bentley pulled me back up to my feet, staring me straight in the eye, "It doesn't matter. When the captain gets back, you'll be hanging from a rope." "Well, damn." "Get into that cell," Dort ordered, pointing to a small caged room in the back, "You'd better hope the captain'll kill you quick. We aren't so merciful to our...visitors." The two guards shared a disgusting, high-pitched and snorty laugh. I did what they said though, wanting to be as far away from those two as possible. I laid down on the metal sheet that I guessed served as a bed. The only light came in through the open door and the one window that faced east--the metal bars made three yellow rectangles on the ground. I was hungry, but I didn't wanna ask these bastards for food. They'd probably just feed me their gloved fists. Now that I could see them better, I was better able to get a good look at just how ridiculous they looked. These clowns were running around town in blue trenchcoats and tall, dome-like helmets. There were markings on their shoulders, but I couldn't get a good look at those. They wore gloves too, white, delicate gloves. Ironic. I sat there for a good five years counting the bumps on the wall. I usually lost count around the 40th bump. It was a bumpy fuckin' wall. Bentley and Dort had gone now, off to some errand I guess. Probably shopping for more matching outfits. They came back around the time that I had contemplated trying to squeeze through the cell bars. That would've been embarrassing. The two of them no longer looked like snobs; they were sweating profusely and their faces were red, and their lack breath was draining them of their words. Dort began to ring a bell in desparation. "You two alright?" I asked nonchalantly. "Shut up," Dort barked. "MAN THE GATES!" Bentley squealed, "STAY INSIDE, DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOMES AT ANY COST!" Good fucking god, Benny. "ARLETSTON GUA--" Dort screeched, interrupted by a bolt of orange light splitting through his throat. The man choked on the gunfire, eventually staggering to the floor as he clutched for breath. The ringing stopped as he clunked against the floor, rattling until finally giving up. "DORT! DOOOOOORT!" Bentley began to sob, kneeling beside his friend as gunfire began to rage around him, "NOOOOOO! WE HAVE A MAN DOOOWN! MAN DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWN!" "Shut the hell up already!" I yelled at him, "Shoot back at those bastards!" "I-I-don't..." "What, you don't have a gun?" "No, it's just..." Bentley shivered as he dragged Dort inside, propping him up against the wall as he unholstered his pathetic little pistol, "I can't..." "Can't what?" "I can't bear to fire at another man!" "Shut the hell up already," I repeated, "Lemme out, I'll shoot 'em all for you." Of course, I don't advise firing at people while high. Bentley seemed to hesitate, but eventually he brought himself to fumble with the lock until I got loose. I took Dort's gun, pushing a table in front of the doorway to create some cover. Another man in the guard uniform was coming towards us, so I stepped aside and let him climb in. He wore black gloves, a regular coat, and his gloves were black. Can't they decide on one fuckin' uniform? "Captain of the Guard," the worn man rasped, "otherwise known as Wesley." Well, it's not as bad as Dort or Bentley. "Who the hell're you?" he finally asked me when he slid over to the side, taking cover beside me. Bentley just stood, watching the two of us. "Darren," I answered as I returned fire to our common enemy, "apparently, you're supposed to hang me soon." "Well," Wesley began, shooting down a few more as if it were no task at all, "I suppose I could pardon you if you did Arletston a favour." "What kind of favour?" "Uh, sir--" Bentley interrupted. "Go watch the back door and make yourself useful, dirt bag." "Yes, sir." "Again, Wesley, what kind of favour?" It was then that one of the invaders had run up to the door, caught us by surprise, and yanked Wesley out the doorway. Shit. I ran out after the man, and I saw that he was now being used as a human shield; the invader pointed his gun at me, using the captain as a shitty excuse for a shield. I raised my gun, aiming carefully, when Wesley stomped on the man's foot and swiveled around to kick him in the balls. Swift for an old man, I must say. "That's all of them," he said, "but you should've checked your surroundings before running out after me like that, kid." I let the "kid" and the advice slide just because he wasn't Bentley. "What's that goddamn favour you need?" I asked as he approached me again. "Well," he continued, having caught his breath, "If you help me run these idiots out of the area, I'll forget about your crimes. You're free to do as you please here before tomorrow, so long as it's lawful." Bentley had been close behind me. "And he will too?" "And he will too. Isn't that right, Bentley?" He only nodded. "Anyway, you help me run these freaks outta town, and you'll be scot-free." "Sounds fair enough." "Bentley, start cleaning up these bodies," the captain commanded, "and remember to actually fire next time." "Yeah..." he sighed, "will do." "Darren, you're free. Go on and do whatever the hell you planned on doing here, but don't do anything stupid." I nodded, ALMOST feeling bad for Bentley as I turned around and made my way down the street. --- Of course, I wasn't gonna listen to Wesley. I was gonna do something unbelievably stupid. What was I gonna do, you may ask? What is old Darren gonna do? He's gonna go to another bar and get stinking drunk again, that's what he'll do. Genius. But no, not just any old bar... I'm going to what the sophisticated men call a "titty-bar." So I show up to this grey building with a large neon sign in front of it with "Arlet's Harlots" in large lettering. Very creative. It's pretty much featureless with the exception of a big tough guy standing up front. Now THIS was a Bruno to behold. I walk up to the guy, stare up at him like I've never entered one of these before, and give him a bit of a weak voice. "Hey, uh..." I started, "so how do I get in?" "Fifty to get in," he droned. "I don't got that mu--" "Fifty." "You sure?" "Whathe fuck did I till you jus' now?" "Fifty, yeah, sorry," as I reached into my pocket and pulled out some counterfeit money, "Yeah, man, sorry..." I trudged inside, but I immediately went back to walking normally as soon as I entered. Why I did that I will never know. I wasn't gonna waste my time; I had just one day to be buttfuck insane before old Wesley'd be up my ass about running that gang outta down. Oh well. Better find the sexiest stripper in here before then. I started off by drinking as much as humanly possible--just the right amount before I'd be staggering around. Sure enough, I was loose as hell but I wasn't too outta control. Put me right on track to ignoring anything regretful I may do. I went down to where the girls were (I looked--there weren't any men) and took a seat, bathing in the smells of illegal substances and, of course, the classic stench of nicotine. I didn't have to do much because within a few minutes one of them was already all over me. Now, I'm not sure if it was all the alcohol, but she was fucking sexy. The way she just warmed up to me instantly gave me chills, the way she stared into my eyes and made me feel so uncomfortably horny-- Anyway, I ended up taking her back to my apartment after a frustratingly tempting lap-dance (she'd revealed that she also doubled as a hooker, yay). I'm sure the entire block could hear her screaming; I had the window open, and she was bent over it to overlook the street. Good fucking god, she was a great fuck. Left me sweaty and everything. I paid her in actual money--the girl deserved it for having such a shitty job. After she left, though, I sat on my bed and lit a cigarette. I took my time, letting the thin bundles of light grey swirl. She really did have a shitty job, and I really did feel bad for her. I mean, I basically just used her for a good time, no? What the hell's wrong with me--she's probably got no alternative. That job, bein' a stripper, is just rock fuckin' bottom. Can't believe the shit she's gotta go through. I'm probably not even the worst she's done. "Oh well," as I took another dose of stardust, "won't matter anyway..." I soon felt nothing, and drifted to sleep on my messy bed. --- I woke next early in the morning, probably around eight. I really can't help that--no matter what I do, it's always kinda early when I wake. I was already dressed, too. All I did as I left the apartment was gather some money, the pistol I'd gotten off Dort, and my coat to slip over my shoulders. I walked down to the police station, taking my time. It was an odd angle for the sun; just about half the town was covered in shadow while the other basked in the refreshed sunlight. Arletston's buildings were very old fashioned--they were made of brick and huddled together like groups of street bums looking for warmth around the streetlights. The roads were comprised of large stones arranged to fit like one of those jigsaw puzzles. I saw the stripper from last night (she hadn't told me her name yet), and she gave me a wink. Kinda weird, but I guess it's a good way to keep business. It damn well worked on me because I was already contemplating coming back. As I got close to the blue building again, I saw Wesley sitting on a rocking chair with a cigarette in his mouth. That was another old fashioned thing around here. Usually, people smoke electronically now. "Hey, kid." I'm gonna have to get used to that. I looked into the window, and Bentley was inside, sitting at a desk and writing something. "What's he doing?" "Filling out paperwork after yesterday's massacre." he replied blandly, letting his cigarette fall to the ground as he stood, stomping it out with precision. "Are we heading out now," I asked, "y'know, to track down those guys?" "Yeah, just now," he coughed out. "I made Bentley retrieve your horse, by the way," as he pointed to the dark, mud brown Morgan. If there was anything I cared most about, it was that damned horse. I'd named it Morgan because of the breed name. Don't tell anyone, but that's really the only breed I'm familiar with. As soon as Bentley finished signing off the last paper, he bursted out the door and snapped into a salute. "I told you to stop it with that shit," Wesley rasped, "this isn't some sort of army." "Yes, sir," as the salute withered from his posture. "Sir, may I ask a--" "Can we fuckin' go now?" I interrupted. Wesley glanced between the two of us. "We're going now," he stated firmly, "you can ask on the road." We mounted our horses and headed out the rusty gates of Arletston, dust kicking up heavily behind us. --- The trail we followed was a vague one. It was more often that we went off-road than stayed on it; these gangsters were clever for a band of violent numb-skulls. We had to ride carefully--Wesley was the only one who was able to decently point out where the survivors of the shootout had gone. He had a keen eye for footprints and tracks, and apparently it'd been something he'd done all his life. The old man was wise, but I get the feeling like he's a little full of himself. He keeps telling us random stories about all the outlaws he'd caught with this method and that. After a long moment of silence, the only sound having been the clipping and clopping of the horses' hooves, Bentley decided to speak. "Sir, how far are these criminals?" For once, Bentley had said something reasonable. We'd gone pretty far out, and it looked like we weren't getting anywhere anytime soon. It was all dust, dead grass, and the occasional dried up tree or cactus. "Not too far now," the captain replied, his voice low as he concentrated on the trail, "but don't get your hopes up. These tracks aren't too well, uh..." he struggled to find the word, "defined." "You ever run into these guys before?" I asked, bored as hell. "Too many times," he answered after a pause, "but that's the only thing keeping Arlie exciting. That, and the corrupt mayor we've got." He got a good, curt laugh out of that. "They like to call themselves Leatherbacks," Bentley, "both after the turtle and the fact that they are obsessed with collecting leather." "Where the hell're they gettin' leather out here?" I wondered aloud. "Arletston." Wesley replied grimly. "I didn't see any cattle--" "Humans've got hide too," the old man continued, "you don't wanna get caught up close to those bastards." I kept quiet after that, letting my horse lead me along the others. I won't lie, I've killed a few men, but skinning them and turning them into clothing? The fuck is up with that? --- We stopped below a rock formation that sorta drooped over, providing some shade. Wesley said we should wait for the sun to go down; it'd be easier to get the jump on them in the dark and we were apparently a few minutes away. Luckily, Bentley had remembered to take flasks of water, one for each of us.